Colors
by Unhappy Curls
Summary: "Just do as you're told, dog." She says.


Okay, so I noticed no one has ever delved into the minds of the supposedly "mindless dogs" that the evil Professor Einsturzen sends out in all those trains, so I decided to give it a try. I know it probably, but my inspiration came from the son that I have put in here. I'm sure can already tell this is a "Song-Fic".

I hope you like it, but I do understand if you don't. It was just something very interesting to explore. I'm trying to broaden my horizon.

**Dosclaimer**: I do not own Dog: Bullets & Carnage in any possible way. The series and characters all belong to Shirow Miwa. Also, I do not own the song Ashes of Dreams. It belongs to the very people that wrote it. (If you're interested, though, it's from the soundtrack of Nier Gestalt and Replicant. Beautiful music.)

**Written**: June 20, 2013 - Thursday

**Colors**

_Once there were trees full of birds.  
Meadowlands vibrant with flowers;  
Carefree the songs our children once sang  
Gilding our minutes and hours.  
Clouds came and covered the sun,  
The breath of a baleful unease  
Turning to ashes flowers in their fields,  
Silenced the birds in their trees._

I am a dog, a dog for her, a dog for our cruel and demanding mother that I slowly forget the name of. She drifts in and out of my mind as a black and white creature with evil eyes telling me to kill over and over again. She wants my claws and teeth to rip and bite until there's nothing left of the target. Kill, kill, kill…

She drills us – my brothers and sisters and I – until we are numb. My senses go numb, pain becomes nothingness. The only thing I feel is the need to kill, to satisfy Mother. Reality becomes nothingness, even during my time locked away. There is a deep lifeless hole inside me. It is black and dead, whispering of no escape.

Sometimes tiny thoughts spur up as I lie in bed, attempting to sleep, praying to someone who might hear me beg for dreams. I pray for dreams with colors and life. I imagine seeing pinks and purples, blues and yellows. I wonder and think of what colors really are, what flowers are, what life is. What is this fabric I wear? What are _her_ plans for us? What is the purpose of us, of all of us?

But then I remember that these thoughts are not allowed. If she could enter my brain and see them I would be considered scrap, defective trash. She would kill me and toss me out, wouldn't she? I assume so.

"Just do as you're told, dog." She says.

And I do as I am told, for that is all there is to it. That is all I am able to do. Fighting is futile because there's a bomb inside me.

A bomb…

_Hidden so deep in veils of deceit,  
Imprisoned in twisting spells -  
Are we the plaything of fiends, or merely the dreams  
That we're telling ourselves, telling ourselves?_

_Strive till the phantoms are broken,_  
_Fight till the battle is done;_  
_The squadrons of night can't conquer day,_  
_Nor shadows extinguish the sun._

Covered in black garb I board the train with my brothers and sisters and sit, waiting. Knife and sword are attached and ready to bite and claw at the targets ahead. The targets are people, living breathing humans. If I can I will study them, watch them as long as possible before cutting them. Maybe I'll learn what living is. Perhaps I'll endure real pain from one of them.

And if I am lucky I'll even see colors. Will there be colors and life for me to enjoy the site of as I create the red, the blood?

Looking at my brothers and sisters I ponder about them. Do they question things the same way I do? Maybe they do and are just too afraid to speak up. We never speak up or against mother, for she would punish us. We are expendable objects to her, dogs that she can just use.

We _are_ being used.

The train moves. I feel it beneath my boot covered feet, my eyes gazing out through the black mask that resembles a dog. We all wear the same thing – black clothing with dog faces – to rid us of individuality. Our purpose requires connection and trained control. We are to do our job and nothing else. There is no room for being an individual, for enjoying silly things such as colors and life.

As we speed ahead to the underground cities I imagine what it will be like. This is my first time away from home, away from our cell. Will there be colors and life? Do people have individuality in these places where one woman has no control? Perhaps the colors are what give each person their individuality. Maybe, if I am lucky, all those differences will spark the flame and bring back the life inside me that has been fading away.

Maybe the numbness will disappear.

The train stops and I suddenly remember why we're all here: to end lives.

_Stories of danger, fearless attack,  
Spectres of plague and pain.  
All of these ghosts of our own delusions come back;  
And we'll be haunted again, haunted again._

_For tho the storms are over and past,_  
_Tho the thunder's rage is quieted at last_  
_Well this nightmare's lad me down in the rags here to mourn,_  
_Here to mourn._  
_The night has left us crippled with grief_  
_As we strive to keep alive our belief,_  
_But a lost so great, it clouds all our hopes for the dawn._

The colors are amazing and beautiful as I step off the train for the first time.

Even though the people run from my blade I love seeing them. They scream with life and each voice is so different and particular. I want to keep hearing them, seeing them. They're all so different and vibrant with multitudes of colors and shapes.

Purples rush here, greens dance away there. Pinks and blues streak by with screams floating into the air. Oranges and yellows stumble back.

It's beautiful, too beautiful.

But then the red enters into the colors.

Cutting and slicing I make adults and children fall and spread their blood all around. It spills onto floors, splashes against walls, and smears my sword with horrible stains. It is red, the only color I hate.

Will I ever stop hating myself for this?

_Hidden so deep in veils of deceit,  
Imprisoned in twisting spells -  
Are we the plaything of fiends, or merely the dreams  
That we're telling ourselves, telling ourselves?_

I am in position where I stop and simply stand. We all stop.

This is it. Every fiber of my being knows what will happen next. I know that the bomb inside me will activate and I will die. It is my only escape from this nightmare.

We are not supposed to feel pain. That is what I was told, but now I am in pain. It starts as a small pinch, a little prick at the back of my neck. Slowly it grows to a terrible choking sensation until I am hacking and sputtering and salivating. Foam seeps out like a rabid dog, pushing out of my mask, my snout.

The pain grows and grows until it is white hot, burning me alive. It spills through my body and blood like liquid fire. Everything blurs before me, even the girl with the same sword as us. She looks at me with those wide eyes.

Why does she look so concerned?

That is my last thought before everything explodes into bright light.

_Stories of danger, fearless attack,  
Spectres of plague and pain.  
All of these ghosts of our own delusions come back;  
Have we been fighting in vain? Fighting in vain?_

Scents enter my nostrils as I stir awake. They are sweet and smell of softness, of life. Am I alive?

I slowly open my eyes to colors. There is green all around, some growing into vibrant blues and purple, pinks and yellows. They flutter sideways in a wave of welcome, rustling little hellos to me as if they know me better than I know myself. This is probably true. For the longest time I have forgotten who and what I am.

Reaching out I gently touch one. It feels as soft as I imagine it to. Fingers rub over the petals of colors as I realize what these are. They are flowers. I am with flowers, watching and seeing them as they do the same to me.

Sitting up I see them all around. They are dancing in the warm breeze that feels like something with a name. What name, though? Does it matter? The colors are all around. The black and the white are fading from memory. Life is coming back with the vibrant beauty of all these colors.

"Welcome home." An unfamiliar voice says, yet it feels so familiar and comfortable.

Turning I instinctively take the warm hand of the kind one, the one I have known and never know. He welcomes me into the warmth of this world beyond death, past gold and away from the blackness of death.

I'm home.

I'm alive.

~End~

Okay, take note that I wasn't so sure what to rate this, so it is rated Mature. If it should be at a younger rating please feel free to tell me. I hope you enjoyed this.


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